


Home is where someone is waiting for you

by Indigoblau



Series: Everyday Heroes - They don't always wear capes! [Drabbles] [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Best Friends, Gen, Homophobia, I'm Sorry, Not all heroes wear capes, correct english tenses are for the weak, for both the bad english and the story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:37:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11781393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indigoblau/pseuds/Indigoblau
Summary: Bokuto has his coming out and his parents are assholes.Luckily, he still has his two best friends!





	Home is where someone is waiting for you

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there!  
> So, this is my first drabble.  
> I had this idea in my mind for a long time, but never got to actually write it.  
> But now its done!
> 
> I want to dedicate this work to Lisa, one of my best friends for over 10 years now.  
> As she came out as bi to her parents, they didn't took it well, too.  
> Luckily, it wasn't as bad as pictured in my story, but still bad and my heart aches at this thought.
> 
> Even if you'll probably never read this, I still wanted to say that I love you no matter what,  
> and no matter if you're happy with a boy or a girl or just on your own, wherever I am you have a place to come home to,  
> and even if you're somewhere across the planet, you have a place inside my heart.  
> Keep going, girl <3

„You’re a disgrace!“ 

It hurt. 

More than the fist, that collided with the side of his face and sent him flying to the floor, more than the foot following the fist, meeting painful with his ribs, half exposed under the thin navy blue shirt that had slipped halfway upon his chest as he had met with the cold parquet beneath him. More than the throbbing pain in almost every inch of his body, these words, spoken softly, almost careful and barely audible in the background felt like they ripped open his chest and threw out his heart, leaving him to bleed out there on the floor of the living room in his so-called, now former home. It was the words his mother had spoken whilst his father had shown him with his fists what he thought of his son, which signalled Bokuto more than anything else, that he had lost his family in this exact moment. That there was no place he would come home to anymore. No-one waiting for him.  
It hurt, it hurt like hell, and for the flash of a second, the black and grey-haired teen was ready to give up on what he just had said, ready to apologise and begging on his knees just so this nightmare would fade and he’d still have a rightful place in his family – the family he loved nonetheless.  
But what good would it do – he’d apologise and act like this never happened, trying to bury what he was in the ground beneath his shame, the shame of not being able to break free from the prison the opinions of his family had caged him in, just because he was too weak and wished for a home. Now, that he had taken all the bravery he’d found inside of himself and the snickering “good lucks” spoken through the tiny speakers on his desk, ignoring the nagging worry masked by the forced casualty of these words, now that he finally had spoken and exposed himself as what his parents hated the most, there was no turning back. There was no chance in hell that he’d take them back, just to be the son this two humans – not even worth to be called that – would be satisfied with. 

He had known that this day would come since he had been 12 years old. He had known – feared – that it would be as bad as it now turned out to be. He had expected his father to hit him, to yell at him. Hell, he even was ready to leave the house in the middle of the night just to never come back again.  
But he’d never thought that just four simple words would hit him like an approaching truck, and oh, how he wished that it’d be a truck instead.   
How he wished.   
But it wasn’t.  
There was no street, no streetlamp flickering, no truck racing, leaving him frozen in his headlights like a shaken deer.  
He still lied on the wooden floor in his parents’ house, nose and busted lips bleeding, head throbbing, chest burning. He almost cracked a smile; imagine his friends seeing him now, beaten and pathetic, defenceless against the raging wrath flashing through the eyes of his father.

Every time someone introduced him to a friend or the like, they’d mention his cocky attitude, his eccentric moods and – in case of really close friends, his braveness and how strong he always was.  
Laughable, Bokuto thought to himself, that’s what they’d find him now. Nothing but laughable, a broken, little figure, not able to get up against his parents and stand his man.   
Careful, he tried to get on his hands and knees, blood slowly dripping’ from his split lip to the ground. He risked a shy look over his shoulder to where his parents were standing, his father with a raised fist, his mother deadly pale and with shaking lips, clinging to her husband’s arm.  
He tried to get up entirely, planning on gathering a few things from his room and then leave this house – his home for 20 years, his family and all the memories buried inside the walls – for good. He didn’t knew where to go, but he didn’t care. As long as he could make it out here alive he’d figure something out. But for now, the only thing counting was get to his feet and run.  
He was halfway up when loud, almost screamed words left him frozen in place. It wasn’t so much WHAT his father was saying but more the unmistakable threatening tone underlying his words.   
“Don’t you dare moving from there. You are exactly where you belong, you dirty faggot. I never allowed you to move from there. And I never allowed you to go and like getting fucked in the ass, it’s DISGUSTING!” He spat out the last word as if it pained him to even phrase it. A quick movement followed and Bokuto looked up again, just in time to throw his hands over his head to cushion the blow that followed the second after, smashing him back to the ground. His back missed the corner of the couch by a mere hair, but it still costed him a few, precious seconds to readjust himself and look back to his father. And this time, his father’s foot met with his totally unprotected chest, the arms of the desperate teen still hovering over his head. The corner he’d missed before slammed right in his lower back, pressing the air out of his lungs and sending shots of burning hot pain through his spine.   
The back of his head hit the ground hard enough for his vision to go black for a few seconds. For a moment, the boy welcomed the relaxing dullness of unconsciousness, hoping to be allowed to give in to the calming presence of the nothingness tugging on his beaten body. But soon enough he was threw back into reality, struggling to catch his breath again, eyes searching frantic for the figure of his father. As he couldn’t find him, he panicked, afraid that in the small amount of time in which he had been out cold, the man, his hero when he’d been younger, had gotten on the other side of the couch to go and try assaulting his once oh-so-loved son from a different angle. Bokuto winced as he turned his head really fast, but his father wasn’t there either.   
Breathing shallow, as to not disturb his maltreated rips any further, the wing spiker looked around him, and as he couldn’t spot the figure responsible for his beaten up face and body, he knew, that THIS was his one and only chance. He must’ve gone to the kitchen next to the living room, for whatever reason, and Bokuto knew, gripping his hair with a sweaty hand, that he had to run, now, or he wouldn’t make it out of here alive and in one piece.  
Hastily he stumbled to his feet, swaying as black spots danced in his vision because of the sudden movement, steading himself with one hand on the wall, the other on the sofa rest. Careful he tried making a step, not sure if his shaky legs would support his weight. It worked, somehow, and once he was sure not to fall right back to his knees, he ran.  
He ran past his mother, still standing by the door, frozen in place and mumbling to herself, past the kitchen door, where he could hear his father rambling and doing whatever he was up to, down the floor, where the walls were decorated with pictures of himself and his parents, smiling, faking a laugh to keep up a façade he even then knew would crumble someday to pieces, following the marching order his father had hammered in his head since he’d been a little boy, following the path they had chosen for they only son, eyes closed and hands over ears, ignoring the screaming voice in his head, which grew louder and louder with each year that passed. Pictures showing Bokuto Koutaro as he was wished by the two so-called humans standing by his side, smiling, one hand on his shoulder, as if to say that he was their property. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t the son they had wished, prayed for. He wasn’t walking the path they had carved out for him. If he would’ve keeping up with this image, he was climbing the mountain by himself, hands and feet bloody and scraped, far away from the safe way marked with flags, crying faces printed on them.   
And he was glad. He was so so glad that he finally had woken the courage to leave the safe street hammered in the cold stone of the rock before him, that he finally had stood up for himself, even if it meant to go out in the wilderness of an unknown mountainside, even if it meant to no longer have a home he could come back to.

As he passed the door to his room, he slowed down and threw a glance over his shoulder, whimpering at the intensifying pain in his head and back because of the sudden action.  
As he didn’t saw his father coming up behind him, Bokuto quickly opened the door in front of him, jumping over the piles of books and clothes lying on the ground. With one hand he grabbed his training bag with the Fukurodani-crest on it, the other busy picking up whatever clothes he could reach from the messy bed and floor, shoving it in the bag whilst praying that his father hadn’t noticed his absent yet. As he just had finished and was at his bedroom door once again, he heard a menacing shout, and his father, loudly yelling Bokutos given name, appeared at the threshold from the living room.   
The teen stopped dead in his tracks, blood running cold and frozen in place, fear washing over him. He wouldn’t make it. He wouldn’t get out of here fast enough, his father would catch him and drag him back to where he’d started, and he’d beat him to dead, telling the doctors and all of his friends sparkling lies about a sudden illness, or probably even something about Bokuto killing himself, just so he could bury his misshapen son without anyone knowing of his preferences.  
Just so he could retain his face in front of the people he knew, so he hadn’t to shame himself and admitting them that his son had chosen the wrong path.  
Panic flooded Bokutos brain, making him unable to react.  
It wasn’t until the fretting man known as his genitor, yelling, head a perfect shade of crimson, had almost reached him, that the shocked boy regained the control over his body. Adrenaline pushed through his veins and allowed him to ignore the pain unfolding in his head, his back and his rips, making it incredibly painful to breath or even move, and he again ran along the floor, franticly fiddle with the key in his lock at the front door.   
The cold winter air of a perfect November’s night welcomed him as he ran out of the apartment,  
door slamming shut behind his back to win another two or three seconds, not even looking back once but deadly sure to never come back again.  
Bokuto ran and ran, past the doors of the other flats, down the stairs in the stairwell and away from the block of houses where his misery laid buried in a now abandoned child’s room, the cold light from the moon staining the soft owl-printed carpet like silverish drops of blood and sweat.

Bokuto didn’t stop until he was a good mile away from the gates of his personal hell, only now realising how bad the cold night’s air stung in his lungs, and.. oh god, how painful every heave of breath was, how bad his head throbbed.   
With the adrenaline leaving his body, the pain, the exhaustion, the terror came back, hitting him with the force of the fist of his father had prior.  
The boy slumped to the ground, arms slung firm around his aching chest, trying to steady his breathing without wincing with every intake of air. He felt tears burning in the corner of his eyes, but he fought them back. Now wasn’t the time to cry. He escaped his parents’ apartment, sure, but he wasn’t safe at all. What if his father had gotten after him and was on his way? What if he’d taken the car, following his foot prints in the snow, softly covering the ground?  
And as he thought about this, he first realised how cold it was! He had no shoes, he only wore the thin navy blue shirt from back then, light sweatpants that he once had snuck out from Kuroos and socks with grey and black stripes, somewhat unplanned matching his hair. In fact, he really must’ve looked hilarious, dressed like this, hair sticking to all sides, even more than usual, dried blood on his face and bathed in sweat.  
He almost smiled at the silly thought, currently having more serious problems than how he looked. The coldness seeping through the thin fabric of his clothes reminded him of one of those problems: With no jacket nor shoes he crouched on the snow covered street somewhere out in the night-silent city, shivering, shaking and on the edge of crying out loud. He didn’t knew where to go. He didn’t knew what to do. He didn’t knew anything, for all that he once was sure of had come crashing down on him in the simple span of the last three hours.   
He had no family anymore.   
He had no home anymore.   
There was no one waiting for him.   
There was nothing.

 

Fluffy snowflakes fell silently to the ground, the only light coming from a streetlamp a few feet away from the boy huddled on the ground, back against a fence hemming a little park, covered in the friendly silent atmosphere owned by late winter nights.  
It had been a little while since the teen sitting there had last moved, resting his head on angled knees, arms slung around his legs as if to protect him not only from the cold, but from the invisible demons swirling around his head, too. But if one looked closer, he’d see him shiver and wincing with every breath he took.   
Suddenly, there was a somewhat muffled noise, startling the exhausted teen and causing him to look up. It took him a good two minutes to identify the ringtone from his handy, which he had, in wise anticipation, threw into his sports bag before he’d went and talked to his parents. But he had completely forgotten about it. He wasn’t one to use his cell phone much anyway. Yeah, it was pretty useful when he was running late to meet someone, but on the other hand, Bokuto was always late and no one really expected him to be on time anyway.  
The most time, his phone spent its time inside one of his drawers in his room and there weren’t that many people who knew his number.   
Right, there weren’t that many who knew his number, so.. who was it? And why now? It had to be close to midnight now. On the other hand, Bokuto somewhat knew whom to expect. It wasn’t like he hadn’t threatened to call him if he didn’t hear a word from his mischievous owl friend in need after an hour. And the fact that his phone didn’t stop going off even when Bokuto wasted another minute rummaging through his bag made it even more obvious who was on the other side of the line.

Finally getting a hold of the little object vibrating, he glanced at the illuminated screen for a second; almost cracking a smile when he saw what was written on the phone: “Snarky ass cat” paired with a picture of a teenager wearing a boot as a hat and showing off his somewhat trademark-like smirk.  
“Bro, you nuts?”, was the first thing Bokuto heard as he tapped on the “accept” button on his phone. “You are aware that you’re like.. two or three hours overdue? I mean, not that’ya ever cared ‘bout stuff like appointments or shit, but this time it’s a somewhat different situation, isn’t it?”   
Bokuto didn’t exactly knew what was the final blow that sent him over the edge. Probably it was Kuroos badly hidden concern. Maybe it just was the familiarity of his voice and the realisation that there was still such a thing as friendly words. But somewhere in the middle of the sentence coming through the phone, Bokuto couldn’t preserve himself any longer. Tears began streaming down his face, his shoulder’s shook even more, now not only from the cold, but from the sheer exhaustion, shock and all the mixed feelings boiling inside of him. He didn’t noticed Kuroo immediately grew silent and making quite noises of comfort, he didn’t felt the pain from his ribs and his head, the cold crawling under his skin. All he could feel was despair, ugly despair tugging at every inch of his body, flooding his mind and leaving him unable to think or to do anything besides crying right where he was being huddled on the street, snow falling slowly around him as if to highlight the fact that one person’s sorrow didn’t made the earths way around itself stop. 

Bokuto didn’t knew how much time had passend until he was able to pick himself up again, at least a bit, and blurring a choked “sorry” trough the speaker of his phone, not even sure if Kuroo was still there or not. But he was, and there was a faint sadness underlining his words as he spoke to his best friend. “No sorry Bro, I told’ya. Where are you right now?” Bokuto tried to blink away the tears blurring his vision, but even now he couldn’t see much more than snow covered grounds, streetlamps with damp light and a few houses hemming the street. “Dunno”, he mumbled, “there’s street”. It got more difficult by the minute to hold the phone to his ear, his fingers were clammy from the cold, and his mind dizzy and more clouded than before.  
“So you outside? Bo, ya aware of the fact that we have, like, the temperatures of an upcoming ice age? Honestly, how long have you been outside for now? You even wear a jacked or anything like this?”  
His words were met with silence; only what sounded like painful, repressed breaths and the static from the phone greeted him.   
“Bo? Ya still there?”   
Silence again.  
A few kilometres away, Kuroo pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, then let them wander through his roughly hair. He took a deep breath, before he, almost screaming, once again spoke to the devastated boy on the other side of the phone: “Koutaro, can you hear me? Where’re you right now?”   
No answer.

Bokuto, once again slumped over, one arm on his knees, head laid on said arm, held the phone loosely with the other hand laying by his side on the snowy street.  
He didn’t heard Kuroos questions and he didn’t heard his curses, how he turned to his computer and hastily spoke to someone through voice chat, just to turn to his phone once again, trying to reach his best friend with his words.   
He didn’t noticed how time flew by, how the snow grew stronger and the wind colder, he didn’t cared, couldn’t care about how his fingers, his hands, feet and ears grew numb because of the cold.  
He was trapped in between the desire to just give in to the calming nothing that tucked on the ends of his consciousness, and to stay awake and defy all odds. Defy the fact that his parents were homophobe assholes that hurt their own son, defy his feelings of biting, burning loneliness that carved holes in his chest right where his heart was supposed to be.  
In this half-delirium he found comfort in the illusion of his two best friends sitting right beside him, his hypothermic mind projected them next to his side, and he imagined sitting on a comfy couch cuddling with his two favourite people of all time. It coaxed at little smile out of him, a smile on a face, stained with frozen traces of tears like long forgotten feelings, feelings the normally energetic and unbreakable teen left behind on the threshold of an apartment, where a man drained his anger in sake and a women sat on the bed of her lost son, crying over a picture of them together as the family they were supposed to be.

Bokuto felt like he could suddenly feel the warmth of the arms of his best friends slung around him, chocolate-brown hair tickling his cold cheek, indefinite words of comfort murmured to his ear in a low sing-song-like voice. He leaned into the touch and gave away to the feeling of safety that spread inside of him. After all, they were still there.   
He didn’t care if this meant to die here on the spot. He didn’t care anymore about stuff like defying the hardships.   
All he wanted, all he cared for was this feeling of warmth, of home to never end.

And slowly, like a boat sailing over soft, tiny waves he drifted into unconsciousness, feeling absolutely at ease.  
And as he threatened to fall over to the ground, long and pale hands catched him, fast but calm reaching to his cheek and to his arm were the blood flowing inside of him was clearly measurable. The hands then throwed a thick, cuddly blanket over Bokutos shoulders and the head he couldn’t see, the head belonging to those careful and welcomingly warm hands turned around and soft lips spoke words to the infinite black mess sitting on top of another person’s head Bokuto couldn’t register anymore.   
The two boys, the chocolate-head and the one with the black mess, examined what they saw in front of them, the sorry state their best friend was in.   
And as they brushed off the snow from a face still covered in dried blood and tears, from arms turning blue and purple not only from the cold, they made an unspoken but nothing less fierce vow to never allow this to happen again. Never again would they allow someone to hurt their precious crazy owl idiot, say alone his own parents.

As they tried to get Bokuto up and to the PKW Kuroo had lent, without him knowing, from his father, the boy in their middle snuggled closer to both of them, not allowing them to let him go for even a second. And the two of them knew, that, how bad the injuris of their friend on the outside may looked like, they were nothing compared to the one berserking in his soul.  
And it would take a whole fucking miracle, actually lots of them, to make it heal.  
But they were sure, they’d find a way.  
Their friend was strong, he was a heroe of his own good, he'd make it.  
They’d never leave him alone again, never let him get hurt again.

And even if he wasn’t able to hear it anymore, and they knew this, Oikawa nonetheless whispered to his ear: “Ko-chan. It’s okay. You are safe now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo.. the end wasn't planned like this.  
> Actually, for a Drabble this was planed way too much,  
> but as I wrote it, I just figured stopping here'd be a good idea.  
> There where several other versions in my head, but I decided to settle with this one.
> 
> This one belongs to my "Heroes" - Drabbles, in which you always can find some kind of "allday heroes",  
> the ones which doesn't wear capes. (On the other hand, there was a version of this story which ended at Kuroos house,  
> where they talked about how Oikawa and Kuroo were Bokutos heores "without capes" for always standing by his side,   
> and Kuroo would go and put on a cape, just to annoy the shit out of his besties. But.. I assume you know what I mean, haha)
> 
> I know that to some of you Oikawa may appear a bit out of place,  
> since its more often than not Akaashi and Kuroo which are written on Bokutos sides.  
> But to me, it always was this three idiots beating the odds together. I don't know why.  
> As to Akaashi; I planned on mention this in the fic, but didn't get to it.  
> As Bokuto left the Fukurodani High School, the contact to Akaashi got thinner by the month,  
> mostly because Akaashi isn't the type of person to write or call a lot, and my headcanon-Bokuto is secretly really unsure of himself,  
> so he somwhere along the way stopped contacting Akaashi, because he thought it would annoy the other boy.  
> Ya know what I mean?
> 
> But Bokuto treasures his time with him in Fukurodani, that's the reason why he still has his old volleyball bag from back then.
> 
> I'd be glad if you could leave a short comment to say if you liked this story or not!
> 
> Have a nice day <3


End file.
